


And Know the Place for the First Time

by Jalapeno_Helen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e13 The Song Remains the Same, First Kiss, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalapeno_Helen/pseuds/Jalapeno_Helen
Summary: Michael has no trouble transporting Dean and Sam back to 2010. Tired and weak, Castiel tries to do the same for himself—only to land in the year 2000, where a young(er) Dean Winchester is having a bad night.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 165





	And Know the Place for the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story veers off episode 5.13, _The Song Remains the Same_. Title borrowed from T.S. Eliot's _Little Gidding_.

He doesn’t jump far enough the first time.

Castiel leaves 1978... only to find himself in 2000. The single comfort he can glean from this is the fact he’s standing by the Impala, which means Dean—at age twenty-one—must be somewhere nearby, and he can perhaps offer Castiel a place to “recharge his batteries,” as humans like to say. He looks around to grasp his surroundings: it’s a poorly lit parking lot outside of a grungy and battered bar, which comes as no surprise. Though Castiel finds he dislikes such places, he wonders if he might go inside to find Dean, then decides it’s best to stay right here, because Dean doesn’t know Castiel yet, and attempting to make introductions in a loud, smoky bar will only produce trouble. Castiel has learned that much, at least. 

He’s prepared to wait however long it will take for Dean to exit, but the interval is short: less than a minute later Dean is angrily hurling himself through the door and stalking towards his car. When he spots Castiel standing so close to it, his expression grows darker.

“Hands off,” he snaps. “This is my ride.”

“You’re angry,” Castiel observes. Normally Dean enjoys bars; there is plentiful beer and women in jean shorts. 

“Bad pool luck’ll do that,” he tersely retorts. Dean yanks the Impala key from his jacket pocket and jams it into the door lock. Castiel watches this action while unpuzzling the explanation in his mind: pool is the game with unwieldy sticks and colored, numbered balls, and it’s one of Dean’s primary methods of acquiring money. He must have done poorly tonight.

“You lost your bets,” Castiel guesses, and reaches into his own coat pocket. He withdraws forty dollars and seventeen cents, the only remainder of the two-hundred—an exorbitant amount, Castiel thinks—that Chuck had given him when he’d seen Castiel would begin craving hamburgers and yet have no means to pay for them. 

“Here,” he says, handing Dean the leftover funds. “You may have this. I have no need for it.”

Dean glances from the proffered money to Castiel’s face.

“Whoa, mister, I don’t do that,” Dean finally objects, though Castiel can sense a temptation from him as he looks at the green paper again. “And a word of advice? I wouldn’t ask anyone in there—” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the bar. “—for it, either. This ain’t the place.”

“I do not desire to make an exchange. You may have this without trade,” Castiel insists. Why is Dean being so stubborn? Why can people not accept gifts freely offered to them? “I only wish to rest with you.”

“Rest with—” Dean cuts himself off, shakes his head, and seems to arrive at a decision. “Fine,” he spits out. “ _Fine._ But not here. You got a place?”

“No,” Castiel answers. “I have no place outside of you.”

Dean balks at this statement, but at last chooses to ignore it. He slips into the driver’s seat and then stretches himself to reach for the passenger side door, which he unlocks.

“Get in,” he orders. Pleased, Castiel does as he’s told, and assumes they’ll drive to whichever motel room the Winchesters are occupying for the evening. He’s surprised when they detour onto a side road instead of heading into town, and is further confused when Dean navigates the car between dark trees, where other travelers will not spot them.

“This’ll be easier in the back,” Dean finally says, but Castiel doesn’t understand: _what_ will be easier in the back that they cannot accomplish in the front? He only frowns at the statement; Dean, noting that Castiel hasn’t moved, sighs.

“We’ll do it here, then,” he declares, and reaches for the fastening of Castiel’s pants.

The realization strikes like a sudden slap: this all makes a sharp, painful sense, this dark bit of road, this exchange of money, and he pushes Dean’s hands back with an urgency that leaves them both startled. 

“No,” he protests. “This is—this is not what I intended.”

“Not what you _intended_?” Dean echoes, disbelieving these words as he disbelieves everything else: the goodness of his soul, his salvation, the fact _good things do happen_. “Pal, I don’t go further than, like, mouth stuff. Anything past that is off limits.”

Castiel feels embarrassed by this statement. 

“That is reasonable,” he feebly agrees. “I simply wanted to help you. You needed money, so I gave you what I had.”

“No one casually gives away forty bucks!” Dean argues, and Castiel wishes he'd known this beforehand; perhaps Dean would have taken a mere twenty without argument, though that is somehow doubtful. “Look, I’m not a charity case. Just tell me what you want _within reason_ and I’ll give it to you. Deal?”

This young version of Dean is no less stubborn than the one Castiel knows so well, and it’s clear that Dean _needs_ these funds—if not for himself then for Sam, who must only be seventeen right now. Castiel does not wish him to go without necessities. At the same time, he doesn’t know how to handle all the stipulations; he’s tempted to simply toss Dean the money and fly off, but he doesn’t quite have the strength yet, and this Dean is not yet used to people appearing and disappearing in his car. The option is not viable.

Half terrified and half distraught, he blurts, “I have never kissed anyone. Perhaps we can do that?”

It is a lie: he was kissed by Chastity, though he perceives a difference in _being_ kissed and kiss _ing_ —one implies an act (forced, in Castiel’s case) upon you, while the other suggests a mutually desired action. But does it matter? He still feels as though he is pushing himself onto Dean, despite desperately choosing the least violating activity that came to mind. 

Dean grins and asks, “Are you kidding? Because you don’t seem like a joker, mister.”

The word _mister_ hangs between them, a sudden and heavy reminder that they are strangers here. 

“Hey,” Dean says, “what should I call you anyway?” 

Castiel finds the strength to try and smile, though his lips feel weighted with stones. “My friends call me Cas.” He adds, as an afterthought: “What is your name?”

Dean only grins again and crawls over to where Castiel is sitting. He throws his leg over Castiel’s thighs, settles on his lap, and links his arms around Castiel’s neck. The comfort of such a position comes as a great surprise, but even that dulls when Dean says, “Does it matter? Your mouth’ll be otherwise engaged.”

It’s an awkward experience at first, but Dean is a good teacher: Castiel learns that he likes to suck Dean’s bottom lip, and that Dean enjoys having his neck kissed. The first ten minutes barrel past, the next ten follow just as quickly, and by the half-hour their breath is laden with _want want want_. Despite the kissing-only request, Dean’s hands have found a nice place beneath Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel’s own fingers are lost in Dean’s brown hair.

Dean finally gasps out, “Cas, let’s move to the back. _Please_ , let’s go,” and Castiel is overwhelmed with agreement. He wants nothing more than to do as Dean asks.

But he looks at Dean’s face, so much softer than he's used to. Here, Dean is twenty-one years old. He is not the person Castiel has grown to love—that does not make him love Dean less, but it still feels wrong somehow, off-balance in a way he can’t explain. This Dean does not know Castiel yet, and if this type of union were to ever pass between them (and he hopes it does, he _yearns_ for it), then he wants Dean to be aware of all the facts. 

“You’re thinkin’ about it,” Dean mutters. “ _Why?_ I’ll give you this part for _free_.”

Castiel swallows hard. Why is he being tested in such a way? What part of this experience will make him stronger? He has never felt _less_ strong.

“I am sorry,” Castiel finally whispers. “You are—you are _wonderful_ , but it’s... late, and I must return home.”

“Twenty minutes,” Dean wheedles. “Ten. Ten more minutes. In the back, c’mon. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Castiel doesn’t fully understand the implication, though he’s sure those extra ten minutes would have been extraordinary. He reaches up to touch Dean’s face, pulls him in for another kiss, and says, “You are so young.”

He means one thing, but Dean takes it as another. He leans back on his knees, observes his companion in barely-there light.

“You’re the only guy who’s ever said that,” he declares. “In the history of the _world_. No one's complained about my age before.”

Castiel smiles, but it's real this time.

“You are too young for me, but maybe there is someone else for you. Someone more... appropriate.”

Dean sighs, moves back into the cold driver’s seat, and checks his watch.

“Can I at least drive you somewhere? Your hotel? Your house?” he asks. “A brothel, maybe?”

“I do not care for brothels,” Castiel answers, and then adds, “The bar would be preferable, if it’s not out of your way.”

The drive back to the gritty bar is quiet, but it’s a comforting silence, and very similar to the one he and Dean share in 2010. It’s such a familiar feeling that Castiel expects to find his Dean at the wheel, but every time he looks over, the younger version is concentrating on the dark road. His profile is similar, his freckles, his lips, but it’s not quite him, not yet. When they finally make it back to the beaten parking lot, Dean says, “Don’t go in there. Find somewhere else, okay?”

Castiel nods and hands Dean the money. It is forty dollars plus one dime, one nickel, and two pennies. Dean smiles at the coins. 

“If I had any more, I would give it to you,” Castiel says, and feels guilty that he has no additional money at his disposal. 

“You know what? I believe you,” Dean states, and then crooks his finger, indicating for Castiel to come closer. He does so without pause.

Dean rewards him with one last kiss and says, as Castiel’s exiting the Impala, “See you around sometime,” and thinks the words a lie, that he won’t ever see Castiel again, but Castiel knows this isn’t true at all. He watches Dean drive away, the red lights becoming small and dim until they vanish all together, and so he closes his eyes and thinks _home_ , and is gratified to land right where the Winchesters are, in 2010 A.D., the year of our Lord. 

\---

When he wakes, his limbs are sprawled against one of the motel mattresses. His head feels strange and heavy; his mouth, oddly, seems dry, and Sam does not appear to be present. 

He vaguely recalls saying something to the brothers before passing out, but does not remember being dragged to the bed. A moment later he notices that Dean is situated on the bed across from him, watching as Castiel struggles to sit up. 

“You hungry?” Dean asks, rising to retrieve a bottle of water from his duffel. He hands it to Castiel, who curiously desires it despite not knowing why. He untwists the cap and takes a hesitant sip. A moment later he begins drinking in earnest. It washes the blood out and rids his mouth of dryness, and he feels much refreshed—he guesses this is what refreshment must feel like, at any rate—afterwards.

“No, thank you,” Castiel answers. “I assume that is where Sam has gone?”

“Yeah, he’s picking up something. You feeling okay? Because you were all over the place for a second. You’ve been out for three hours.”

Three hours? Castiel checks the window. It’s dark outside, just as dark as the road he had visited not so long ago, and yet it’s been years since. His thoughts are disorganized, his recollections blurred as he turns towards Dean, who is a little bit taller, a touch leaner, his eyes not quite so mischievous, his lips less likely to form a smile. At the same time, it is the Dean Castiel knows, the one he is used to, the one who has taught him almost everything worthwhile.

“I got just one question, Cas,” Dean says, and makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “I mean, with Anna going Glenn Close and Michael wearing dad, there’s something I gotta know.”

So much has happened that Castiel struggles to remember it all: the fight against Anna and Uriel, Michael’s message through the young John Winchester, the sigils he was taught to draw, how everything went wrong and right at the same time—how can Castiel hope to answer any question pertaining to this myriad of events? He will try, of course, and maybe even succeed, but the nature of time itself is nearly impossible to clarify in human language, and the task will not be easy. 

“Ask,” Castiel tells him, “and I will endeavor to explain to the best of my ability.”

Dean nods, and asks, as though inquiring to the state of the weather: “Am I old enough yet?”

Castiel feels a hot bolt strike through his borrowed body, though it is becoming his own day by day. He wants to say _I do not understand your meaning_ ; he wants to fly off; he wants to hide somewhere until this strange sense of discomfort passes, but he _desires_ far more than anything else right now, and so he lunges to his feet and lets Dean stalk over to him and wrap his arms around Castiel’s neck, just as he did in the car.

“Yes,” Castiel breathes. “ _Yes_. You are—you are exactly as you should be, if you choose it, if you still want—”

Dean leans in close and gusts hotly against Castiel’s mouth.

“I’ve been wanting for _ten years_ ,” he grits out, a man who’s been on edge for too long. “There’s a decade between then and now, and I remember the whole thing, and I still want it so fuckin' bad, Cas,” and between decadent, grateful kisses, he says, “I remember how you sucked on my bottom lip.”

“And I remember you have a very sensitive neck,” Castiel admits.

Dean laughs, oddly joyful. He pushes Castiel until the back of his legs hit the bed.

“I know what you meant, now, about me being too young,” Dean whispers, unknotting Castiel’s tie, gently pushing the coat off his shoulders, smiling into every kiss he bestows. “I was a kid then, a dumb one. I didn’t love you.”

“You did not know me,” Castiel points out, but feels himself light up at Dean’s words. _I didn’t love you_ , insinuating that is no longer the case.

Dean’s hands are cleverly slipping buttons out of their respective button holes. 

“Never shoulda taken—” Kiss. “—you to that brothel. Why didn’t you tell me—” Kiss. “—we could’ve done this instead?”

“It wasn’t our time yet,” which is a difficult thing to explain between kisses: every part of time is distinctive, and just as Sam was not meant to die in 1978, just as he and Dean were not meant to go too far in 2000, just as so many things are not meant to happen before or after their intended moment, so is the fact Castiel had loved Dean in that abandoned house, but he did not understand it then, and was not capable of differentiating between the iniquitous den and love as he knows it tonight.

“But it’s our time now,” Dean clarifies, and Castiel nods, feels a smile on his face.

“It’s our time now,” he agrees as their bodies sing _at last, at last, at last_.

FIN.


End file.
